


Fishing for Sharks Down the River

by pandarave12



Series: Fishing for Sharks Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Autism Spectrum, Dysfunctional Family, Fluff and Angst, Gen, John is baby Three Continents Watson, M/M, Sherlock and John are thirteen here, Teenlock, Underage Kissing, Underage Smoking, so yeah he flirts a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:39:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandarave12/pseuds/pandarave12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not my boyfriend,” Sherlock cautions. It’s an empty threat. He’ll hate it, he thinks, because relationships aren’t for him. They’re messy and there will be expectations that Sherlock won’t be able to fulfill. Mycroft will know, of course, but his father never should. But John is dangerous—dangerous and interesting and he looks at Sherlock differently, as if Sherlock isn’t an oddity, as if he’s special.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fishing for Sharks Down the River

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a true story.

Puberty hits Sherlock Holmes like a drunk-driven lorry. He wakes up one day and is gripped with a feeling of wrongness. All of a sudden he’s too tall and too skinny, like he was violently stretched overnight. His voice breaks when he speaks too fast, resulting in a sound not unlike a rusty hinge. It is normal, he knows. It’s his body—his transport—catching up with his mind. And while there is something scientifically fascinating about the sudden changes—and while it is a little appealing to know people will take him more seriously now, there is no ridding the awkwardness that comes with it.

 

Mostly, Sherlock hates it.

 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Mycroft tells him with the customary eye roll. Sherlock pays no attention to him. Sherlock was six when Mycroft was thirteen. He remembers Mycroft at thirteen. Tall and heavyset with a cowlick that refused to lie flat and a voice just as unreliable as Sherlock’s is now. He knows he isn’t being ridiculous.

 

Sherlock replies with his violin. The strings groan in protest when he bears the bow down harshly. He already made a decision not to be heard speaking by anyone until his voice has developed enough. The rest of the world will just have to deal with it.

 

“You’ll have to speak in school,” Mycroft warns him and this time, a glare comes with the angry screech of his violin.

 

School is only a week away but Sherlock is good at ignoring his peers and keeping silent. He doesn’t need practice—silence was ingrained in their very being as soon as they were old enough to know that the opposite is not, and never will be, welcome. Siger doesn’t approve of noise. They were told that it’s because it disrupts thoughts, destroys opportunities for ideas to unfold, but really, it’s only because Siger finds it bothersome. The only kind of noise Sherlock is familiar with in their house is that of an untuned violin, and it lasts for only a minute. When Sherlock was younger there were times when he would have to bite his tongue in order not to break the silence with a shout. He still does that sometimes.

 

They must be extra quiet now. Siger’s alarm clock rings at exactly nine-thirty. The gloomy Victorian clock hanging beside the refrigerator shows that it’s currently seven in the morning. Mycroft, who is always awake before Sherlock (if Sherlock lets himself sleep) leaves at eight. What he does exactly is beyond Sherlock and Sherlock can’t bring himself to care. What happens daily is that Sherlock spends the rest of the morning doing an experiment in the basement, the only place where he’s allowed to make noise. Down there, he’ll be able to hear his father’s activities in the kitchen. Siger eats the same breakfast every morning: dry toast and the black coffee Sherlock doesn’t touch because it tastes strange. When Siger doesn’t have a show, he’ll knock on the door and order Sherlock to eat breakfast with him, which is really just Sherlock sitting in the chair opposite him while Siger rattles on about his latest fixation. If there’s a show, his father leaves at eleven. If there isn’t, he spends his time locked in the music library, composing.

 

It never changes.

 

This orderliness does not extend to cleanliness, something Sherlock, and not Mycroft, is familiar with. Their mother isn’t dead, or at least, that’s what Sherlock thinks. The story is that when Sherlock was two, she just walked out of the house in the middle of making him lunch, not even bothering to take her clothes or any of her things with her. Sherlock is already thirteen, yet he still finds traces of his mother’s lifestyle in a lipstick-stained cigarette butt found in the library or in a pair of stilettos tossed underneath the grand piano in the living room. Strangely, there are no pictures of her. The only thing Sherlock knows about his mother’s appearance is that apparently, he looks quite like her and has her colouring.

 

There are times when Sherlock wonders what he’d be like if his mother hadn’t left. They were polar opposites, according to Mycroft, and although Mycroft is a liar, that isn’t something he would lie about. The house would be cleaner for one thing. Siger would possibly be more attentive. Or perhaps not, considering how Siger’s world revolves around the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra and the Barbican Centre. He’s a world-renowned conductor. He values music and sees it as a language. It’s why Mycroft plays the piano and Sherlock plays the violin. They communicate through caprices.

 

Possibly, it wouldn’t be so quiet.

 

And possibly, he’d have bought new clothes sooner.

 

The change is sudden to Sherlock, who’s never really paid attention to his appearances, anyway. It’s obvious that he grew and yet it still takes Siger two days to notice.

 

“Your trousers are too short.” It’s the first thing his father’s said to him in nearly a week and he sounds troubled. To say that Siger does not welcome change well is an understatement because he’ll fly into a rage if there’s something different. Sherlock’s wearing an Armani suit ordered six months ago. It’s a bit too tight around his chest and shoulders but it looks fine to the outside observer. Sherlock is about to tell him so when he looks down—to where his socks peek out from the bottom of his trousers.

 

His father sets his bow down and looks at him properly, still frowning. He’s a handsome man, and looks younger than his forty-five years. The only sign of his age are in the white strands of hair at his temples. His eyes are the same brown as Mycroft’s but he looks at him in the same way Sherlock looks at people. It’s a look that strips you off your skin to see the inner workings of your mind and body. It is odd. It is a little frightening. It is strange that his father _sees_ him.

 

“You look like your mother,” Siger tells him before he goes back to the violin in his hands. In just one sentence, the effect is ruined. Sherlock studies his mother’s wedding ring which hangs unpolished on a chain around his neck. Siger doesn’t notice. Sherlock sighs, picks up his own violin, and sets to tuning it.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s new school is a Catholic school, and while technically he is Catholic, he finds the idea of a higher power preposterous because there are no facts, no evidence that religion will benefit him intellectually. His whole family shares this view. Church is a waste of time, prayers seen as nonsense. His closest encounter to a religious experience is when a few of the braver Jehovah’s Witnesses dare to climb up the hill leading to their house. And yet here he is in a uniform that makes him itch and a tie threatening to choke him. Few schools will take him because while he has an IQ worthy of Mensa, he’s a nuisance to authority figures. His record is thick. Mycroft once recited it to him in a sarcastic voice: smoking, stealing specimens from the laboratory, arson, poor attendance…the list goes on. In a year, possibly less, he’ll be expelled in this one, too. But for now, he’ll have to suffer.

 

His father refuses to have any of the violins taken out of the music library. This one is a one-hundred-year-old Guarnerius. As impressive as that sounds, it’s of lesser value than the rest of his father’s collection. The strings need to be replaced, the A string the weakest among the lot. Clearly, it isn’t a favourite. Moreover, Sherlock is sneaky and his father is too busy revelling in the fact that he got Sherlock to agree to try another year at school.

 

Sherlock doesn’t need school. This was known from the minute he could recite the periodic table without a moment’s hesitation. But the law entails it and there’s no one willing to tutor Sherlock for even more than an hour. Besides, the less Sherlock is home, the less his father has to remember that the law entails he’s still accountable for one child.

 

They give him a map of the campus and a prayer book which he quickly throws inside the rusty locker assigned to him. The school is enormous, both in size and in population. It dates back to eighteenth century, but has already adapted to modern notions, evidenced by the same-sex couples walking by. The noise hits Sherlock like a gale and Mycroft who is blatantly showing his distaste towards the school, quickly bids him goodbye.

 

Sherlock attends his first class, the violin case in his hands. It’s Biology, a subject which Sherlock mastered at the age of eleven, reading textbook after textbook in the dingy light of their basement. He suffers the curious stares of his classmates, keeps silent when they swarm around him and begin asking him questions. Sherlock doesn’t speak. Immediately, he’s deemed as a snob, and to be honest, Sherlock has no need to correct them. He hates them already. They are so boringly normal and even if Sherlock did see them as something other than background noise, he still wouldn’t fit in because they’re interested in sports and movies and popular music.

 

One of them grabs the violin and Sherlock yells, forgetting himself for a moment.

 

He’s blond and somewhat short to Sherlock’s gangly height. Quickly, he returns the violin then raises his hands as if to placate Sherlock. “I’m sorry,” he says. It sounds sincere. “I just wanted to check it out.”

 

Athlete, his mind supplies. Athletes, while usually intellectually inept, make up for what they lack with physical strength. Sherlock despises sports, has never seen the value of it. Once, he made the mistake of expressing his opinion to an older boy who played rugby. It didn’t end well. This one is smaller than that boy and weighs less, but there’s something deceptively strong about him in the set of his shoulders and in his stance.

 

Popular as well, Sherlock notes when he sees a couple others look at him and the blond boy with a disapproving frown. One of them is already rising from his chair. Sherlock’s eyes flick to the front. The desk is empty and if Sherlock is correct (he is, always is) ten minutes will have passed by the time their English teacher returns. Ten minutes is plenty of time to start and end a fight.

 

“I’m sorry,” the boy repeats. He places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The contact is so unusual that Sherlock jumps and nearly drops the case, eliciting laughter from the onlookers. The boy looks at him in concern. “You alright, mate?”

 

His answer is a slammed door.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock started smoking four months prior to his first day in class. He found the cigarettes in Mycroft’s room. To spite his brother, and maybe get a reaction from his father other than a grudging monosyllable, he lit one and smoked it on Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft didn’t catch him on the act itself. The smell was enough evidence. Cigarette smoke, Sherlock learned quickly, clung.

 

“No more,” Mycroft said and that was that. But of course, Sherlock never listens. And if his father has any complaints, he doesn’t voice them. They’re a family of smokers. To forbid one from lighting up is hypocrisy. 

 

Irene Adler is the only student willing to smoke with him within the school premises. She’s two years older than him and just as rebellious as Sherlock is. The difference is that you see her unwillingness to conform at first sight. It’s in the runs on her black stockings and in the dark red lipstick she puts on every morning. Usually, there’s a hickey on the side of her throat. It’s why she keeps her hair tied in a bun, the mark visible to everyone who dares to look. Most do because Irene is stunning, the epitome of every sexually-frustrated teenage boy’s fantasy.

 

Sherlock is the exception. Besides the fact that he has no interest in masturbation like his peers, let alone sex, he knows that as aesthetically lovely as Irene is, she’s more prone to bite than kiss you. She isn’t a friend but her mind complements his own and her very presence irritates Mycroft to no end. It’s the marks on her neck and the lipstick she leaves on Sherlock’s cheek that makes Mycroft scowl at him in disapproval.

 

“He called you a slut,” Sherlock told her once and Irene had just thrown her head back and laughed. It’s the truth, though, but sometimes truths aren’t hurtful. Sometimes they’re absolutely hilarious and Sherlock allowed himself to smile.

 

“He was asking about you the other day,” Irene tells him. They’re lying back, their legs dangling over the edge of the kitchen roof. The Guarnerius sits between them, one of Sherlock’s hands beneath the neck, his fingers idly brushing back and forth against the strings. Irene shifts so that she’s facing him then traps his pinkie with a well-manicured fingernail. “Watson,” she says, “he likes you.”

 

There are three Watsons in his year but Sherlock’s only ever interacted with one. The blond boy who held his violin. Sherlock scoffs. Jack or Tom or whoever he is isn’t interested. Irene is a liar, always has been, and Sherlock would probably mind if he wasn’t a liar as well. Besides the fact that Sherlock has become one of the most disliked people in his year (a feat considering he has yet to speak to them), Dan or Jones or Brad is straight. He’s plays rugby, he’s popular, and girls like him. Besides, what would Sherlock even do with him on the small, approximately 0.48 % chance Pedestrian-Name-Watson likes him?

 

“You should do something about it,” Irene suggests. She places a lit cigarette between his lips, brushes his hair back from his forehead. Sherlock wrinkles his nose and slaps her hand away. “He’s cute and he’s awfully smitten. You can use him.”

 

Sherlock removes the cigarette and snorts. “What would I need him for?”

 

“You haven’t answered him and yet he’s already useful.”

 

Sherlock tries to level her ideas with a glare. “How?”

 

Irene’s smile is wicked. “Little boy,” she says, her voice mocking. It’s the voice Sherlock hates because it makes him feel horribly young. “The possibilities are endless.”

 

* * *

 

The little piece of paper finds its way to Sherlock’s desk in History class. Sherlock stares at it. The paper is thin and grey— torn from a page in their prayer book. There is only one word written on it. _Hello_. With a crooked smiley face drawn below it.

 

The writing is big and blocky. It isn’t Watson’s. That much Sherlock knows because Watson’s academically smart (boring, inaccurate, grades given by idiotic teachers don’t measure intelligence) and the teachers always call on him to recite. It’s obviously male, right-handed judging from the angle of each letter.

 

It’s Mike Stamford. Watson’s friend who isn’t part of the rugby team. Stamford’s trying to stifle his laugh with a pudgy hand while beside him, Watson’s shaking him hard enough for Stamford’s glasses to slip down his nose. Watson’s face is bright red and when his eyes meets Sherlock’s his cheeks darken even further. Another boy in the row in front of Watson and Stamford wolf whistles.

 

The normal thing to do is to respond. But Sherlock isn’t normal and what he does is flick the piece of paper off his desk and try his best not look too bored as to elicit questions. In his peripheral vision, he sees Watson’s face crumple into something like disappointment.

 

* * *

 

It becomes a thing.

 

There’s a new piece of paper on his desk the next morning. The writing is still not Watson’s and the message is cruder, clearly not from Stamford: _Sherlock, babe, hi ;)_

 

Sherlock isn’t sure what to feel about it.

 

It continues, none of them written by Watson himself. _Sherlock, you’re hot. Sherlock kiss me. Oi, you weird freak, go and give our boy a kiss. Go out with me, Sherlock._

Sherlock throws them all away. Sometimes, he isn’t so lucky. Sometimes, one of them gets caught in between note-passing. Sometimes, they’re asked to read whatever it is they’ve written about Sherlock in front of the whole class. Sherlock tunes out the laughter and wolf whistles but he can’t block the way Watson tries to hide in his seat in embarrassment. The secret burns and quickly spreads so that everyone knows what Watson thinks of him.

 

The bullying subsides somewhat because he’s apparently Watson’s and because Watson’s friends consist of rugby players who know how to use the fragility of the human body to their advantage. It’s strange to be protected by the kind of people who tormented him in his previous schools. Strange and more than a bit annoying whenever they loudly tease Watson when he and Sherlock cross paths in the halls. He hasn’t answered Watson, let alone acknowledged him, and yet he’s already become that-guy-Watson likes to everyone in the school. Still, it’s a relief to come home not covered in cuts and bruises.

 

“See what I was telling you?” Irene sing songs. She leans against his locker with her Cheshire’s grin. Her lipstick is smudged and she smells strange, like sweat and something obviously male. Classroom, he thinks when he spots the chalk residue on her skirt.

 

“I don’t like him.”

 

“So?”

 

“He’s annoying.”

 

“You’ve yet to talk to the boy.”

 

“He’s an idiot.”

 

“We can’t all be baby Einsteins, dear.”

 

 _My family won’t approve of him._ Watson plays team sports, seems to have no interest in classical music, doesn’t seem capable of holding an intelligent conversation, and is middle class. Siger isn’t a snob but if there’s one thing he values more than music, it is extraordinary intelligence and, strangely (or not, considering the circumstances), a mild obsession with tea. As for Mycroft, Watson runs with the same kind of crowd who bullied Sherlock in his former schools, and he certainly won’t approve of him. Watson is average. They find average tedious.

 

Sherlock finds average tedious.

 

“Give the boy a chance,” Irene says softly. Sherlock turns to her to argue but Irene’s attention has already shifted to a small girl who keeps glancing at the two of them. Irene flashes her a smile and Sherlock rolls his eyes at the sound of the girl’s books hitting the floor.

 

* * *

 

 “I was told you had a suitor.”

 

Mycroft is not looking at him. Sherlock is not looking at Mycroft. Siger is a concertmaster this time and one of the strings of his violin has snapped. The exchanging of violins is something Sherlock has always favoured when watching a performance. Siger hands the broken violin to the violinist beside him while the violinist hands him his. It continues until the broken one reaches the person at the end, who gets up and goes to the back to have it repaired. The music never stops. That’s the most enthralling thing about it, how one big error can be hidden.

 

“Stop having people spy on me,” Sherlock whispers. He fights the urge to let his voice go beyond it. It’s unacceptable to talk during a performance. The woman beside him glances at him curiously before returning her attention to the show.

 

“That confirms it.” Mycroft taps the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. His pulse point. Sherlock draws his hand away then glares at him. “Careful, Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft does not say the words. He doesn’t have to. It’s ridiculous anyway. He doesn’t care for Watson. He finds him a nuisance, actually.

 

The concert finishes at nine. Mycroft’s been tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair for the past fifteen minutes. He’s hungry; they always have dinner after a concert. Sherlock isn’t hungry. He doesn’t eat much, anyway. No one cooks in the family and his father won’t hire anyone to take care of the household lest they arrange things differently. Dinner is takeout or in a restaurant close by. They rarely eat together because their schedules are different and hardly anyone besides Sherlock is in the house. He’s learned to control his body, learned to ignore its demands. Food is overrated, anyway.

 

Siger is talkative and affectionate. It’s the effect playing has on him, the same way experiments affect Sherlock. He’s laughing, exchanging pleasantries with the conductor who is wiping his sweaty brow. The man beams as they approach. “My two sons,” Siger says, calming slightly, but not enough for him to stop his mannerism when he’s in a euphoric state. His fingers keep subtly tapping a rhythm on his thighs, one that neither he nor his brother miss. “Mycroft and Sherlock.”

 

“This one’s a carbon copy of you,” the conductor jokes when he shakes Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft cracks a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Sherlock knows what’s coming when the man turns to him. “And this one’s got Violet written all over him.”

 

Siger’s smile fades. The night is already ruined. But Siger remains pleasant. Sherlock and Mycroft bid a few members of the orchestra goodbye, Mycroft silently telling Sherlock to be good. The illusion fades when they get to the restaurant. Siger is silent, trapped within the confines of his memories. He picks at his food listlessly. He’s thinking about their mother again. There’s no sadness in his eyes, no trace of nostalgia. Mycroft explained to him once that his father thinks of the possibilities had their mother chosen to stay. Siger thinks logically as do they.

 

Caring is not an advantage.

 

“He doesn’t miss her, Sherlock,” Mycroft tells him when Siger has excused himself to go to the washroom. “He loves her—or well, loved—but he doesn’t want her back. They fought a lot, even before you were born.”

 

“What does he think about, then?” Sherlock asks. Across them, there’s a Japanese family celebrating one of the children’s birthday. They’re laughing, exchanging anecdotes about the celebrant. It doesn’t make Sherlock wistful. None of them celebrates their birthday. The beginning must never be celebrated if you haven’t amounted to anything yet.

 

Then again, how can you even know when you’ve reached the top? No one knows where it is.

 

“Us,” Mycroft replies. He’s watching them as well, his face pensive. “You, specifically.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock hates mouth injuries the most because the taste of blood always lingers, no matter how many times he’s brushed his teeth. The inside of his right cheek stings, where his teeth have sliced through it. Sherlock spits out a mix of blood and saliva. It complements the grass well.

 

“Nice one, John, you just hit your boyfriend,” a boy named Sebastian Wilkes yells.

 

Watson— _John_ stands there, wide-eyed and pale with shock. One of his friends shoves him and John moves, head ducked as he goes over to Sherlock. He’s nervous and more than a bit ashamed. Sherlock spots the ball sitting a few feet before him and before John can get it, he grabs it and throws it at John.

 

His aim is off (damn), so it hits John’s shoulder rather than his head. John’s friends laugh when John jumps, startled.

 

“Idiot,” Sherlock snaps.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry,” John babbles. He looks at Sherlock’s mouth, upset. “I didn’t knock a tooth loose, right? Can I see?”

 

Sherlock flinches when John’s fingers graze his cheek. He immediately retracts his hand. “I’ll take you to the clinic,” he says, finally, not looking at Sherlock.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Let’s just check, okay?”

 

Sherlock glares at him. “Leave me alone.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Is this something that should concern me?”

 

The bruise on Sherlock’s face has transformed overnight into a hideous purple-yellow monster. Sherlock keeps poking it experimentally, slightly amazed at how the pain blooms to the uninjured side of his face. His finger stills on his cheek when Siger tilts his chin up to inspect it.

 

It’s Mycroft who breaks the stillness. “It’s clearly an accident during PE. Sherlock’s always been clumsy.”

 

Underneath the table, Sherlock’s right foot finds its way to Mycroft’s shin. His brother’s smug grin falters but only for a minute. It hurts, Sherlock knows. He has a strong kick, and the fact that Mycroft will have a bruise there in a few hours makes him smile.

 

“I will not tolerate fighting, Sherlock,” Siger warns. He hates being called in for something Sherlock did. “Behave,” was what Siger had told him the last time Sherlock was brought to the headmaster’s office.

 

“I wasn’t fighting, Siger,” Sherlock mutters. Another mistake, his brain points out. Siger purses his lips, displeased. Mycroft glances at him, mouth curling into a complacent grin. _Brother, dear, you know how he hates it when you don’t speak properly._ Sherlock fights the urge to kick him once more and focuses instead on Siger watching him.

 

“I wasn’t,” he repeats. And oh, how he hates repetition. So abhorrent, making him seem too stupid to get things right. Siger depends on repetition, lives by it.

 

He won’t become that.

 

“You better not,” is all his father says.

 

* * *

 

 

John Watson likes him. This is a fact.

 

John Watson is an idiot. This is a fact (for Sherlock).

 

John Watson is shy. This, surprisingly, turns out to be false.

 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.” Irene’s locker is next to his. Sherlock purses his lips when, upon opening it, a chocolate factory and a rose garden fall to the floor. Irene kicks the mess aside before she reaches past Sherlock to wrench open his own locker.

 

“Always figured he’s a romantic,” Irene says as she plucks the rose and hands it to Sherlock, “and no experience in courting boys. Then again, you’re not exactly easy prey.”

 

Sherlock scowls at the flower in his hand. It’s been dyed a deep blue, the thorns left unremoved so that they poke at Sherlock’s skin. Not something you’d normally give someone on Valentine’s Day. The culprit is none other than John, who blushes when Sherlock looks up and sees him standing there with Mike Stamford. Sherlock gives him his most acerbic glare, but John stands his ground and gives him a little half-wave before ducking into the classroom.

 

Everyone else is in on it, even the teachers who partner him with John in every paired-up seatwork. John is grinning like an idiot, talking nonsense to him. He’s hoping for Sherlock to respond but Sherlock ignores him, looks at anywhere other than John.

 

“Stop it,” he finally says. They’re in Chemistry and John (the idiot) is trying to make a joke about the safety goggles handed to them.

 

“Stop what?” John stares at him, bewildered. He’s pushed the goggles up his head so that they’re making his hair stick up. His eyes are very blue and they stare at Sherlock with a childlike fascination that makes Sherlock want to look away.

 

“That,” Sherlock growls. “The talking, the jokes, stop it.”

 

“Why?”

 

He actually has the audacity to look genuinely confused. Sherlock grits his teeth. He can drive John away, he thinks. He’ll hurt John (emotionally) and John will hurt him (physically). He looks at John’s hands which are resting on the table. His knuckles stand out beneath the tanned skin, and Sherlock knows, just by looking at them that John’s punch will hurt. He’ll lose a tooth possibly, might gain a black eye. And Siger will pull him out and put him in another school.

 

_Or boarding school. He threatened you with it once._

John’s phone is sitting beside one of the beakers. Sherlock hesitates. The pause is broken when another of John’s friends catcalls and John turns to smile. Sherlock scolds himself for even thinking of backing out as he picks John’s phone up, ignoring John’s questions.

 

“Your sister’s an alcoholic,” he starts, cherishing the way John’s eyes widen. “The phone you have is too expensive for your age, a model designed for people in their early to late thirties. The scuff marks around the battery port, either your sister’s extremely careless or she’s an alcoholic. She’s still young and lives with you. You don’t get much sleep because of her—she relapses often—so she gives you her phone as a compensation for putting up with her. Your uniform’s always wrinkled but it’s clean. Single mother working two jobs? Ah, no, on the single part, yes on the two jobs. Your father’s an army man. The red wristband you have tells me that. You fear him dying, dream about it all the time which is waste of a phone on your sister’s part. You’re gay or bisexual and you’ve never hidden it but it still embarrasses you. Your father doesn’t know and you’re afraid of his reaction because he’s a military man; he might be disgusted.”

 

He waits for the punch, waits for John to yell at him, but it never comes because John is giggling. “That’s amazing!” he says, and this time, it’s Sherlock who stares at him in shock.

 

* * *

 

 

He wasn’t born able to deduce things at only a second’s glance. True, both he and Mycroft were born with exemplary intelligence but it took time to master the art of observation. It was their grandmother who taught them, teaching them a skill she passed down to her own son in the hopes that Siger would pass it down to his children.

 

But Siger uses his skill to analyse compositions and in the end, it was Cordelia who taught them. Sherlock remembers her as a dignified woman in her seventies. She always wore black because it made her look slimmer than her already stick-thin figure, and there was always an expensive necklace around her neck that Sherlock would touch and, if Cordelia permitted it, stick into his mouth. The lessons began when he was three. Tasting is important in observation.

 

“Why?” He was five and curled up in his grandmother’s lap while they watched Mycroft play a sonata. It was nothing but a school performance and yet his father’s face was schooled into a stern expression, hands pressed together as if in prayer. Failure was not an option.

 

“It will protect you.” She raked her fingers through his hair. It was not soothing. It was more like she was attempting to act like someone she was not, like the other kids’ grandmothers. Sherlock thought it was stupid. He didn’t have a normal grandmother and didn’t want one. He had Cordelia.

 

“It will keep your brain from rotting.”

 

She died when Sherlock was ten. Sherlock remembers little of the funeral, only that her grandmother still wore her trademark red lipstick in her coffin. In spite of it and the black dress, she did not look much like the Cordelia he knew.

 

“All lives end, Sherlock,” Siger told him. If he was upset, he did not show it. They were never anything other than coldly polite to one another.

 

Cordelia, Sherlock thinks, would not disapprove of John because John is an audience and what Sherlock has most in common with his deceased grandmother is that their egotism is just as great as their genius.

 

“So you can do that all the time? And you never get anything wrong?”

 

“You know, people usually hit me than hit on me when I deduce them,” Sherlock says.

 

John smirks at him. “Who says I’m hitting on you?”

 

“You’re standing far too close.”

 

John takes a seat on the grass in front of Sherlock. “Now you’re sitting too close,” Sherlock says and John laughs but doesn’t move an inch. His shyness around Sherlock dissolved the moment he caught Sherlock by surprise in the Chemistry lab. Sherlock lets him talk because John, it turns out, isn’t _that_ boring. He has yet to show any sign of aversion towards Sherlock’s interests, which include experiments and strange cases of homicides.

 

“I’m not going to judge you for liking what makes you happy,” John tells him. He pulls his letter jacket closer around him. It’s cold, not surprising as the weather here’s always on the edge of gloomy and pleasant. John looks warm compared to Sherlock who’s trying his best _not_ to shiver. His own fault for neglecting to wash it, to the point that Siger, who’s always been sensitive to scents, demanded he throw it in the laundry. Grabbing another coat was not exactly an option as his father was immediately driven into one of his black moods.

 

“Happiness is overrated,” Sherlock replies nonchalantly. He folds his arms across his chest in attempt to look bored.

 

“Yours or mine?”

 

“Both.”

 

Bill Murray shouts at John to come and play with them. John gives him a thumbs-up then stands. He stuffs his hands inside the pockets of his letter jacket then grins at Sherlock slyly. He’s slowly getting accustomed to this side of John, the not-golden-boy side of him that Sherlock can tolerate. It’s quite unexpected. And to be honest, it’s quite interesting. “Go out with me?” he asks.

 

Sherlock shakes his head.

 

“Better luck next time, huh?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

He doesn’t watch John leave but he listens until John and Murray’s footsteps fade away.

 

* * *

 

 

“Someone’s jealous.”

 

“Hmm…”

 

“I should move away.”

 

“Yes, I told you that a three minutes ago. You’re still here. Or have you forgotten how to read your watch?”

 

“It’s adorable.”

 

“ _Irene_.”

 

“Look at his face. It’s cute.”

 

Sherlock gives in and looks up from his laptop to find John watching them with a petulant frown on his face. As usual, he’s accompanied with one of the members of his team, a boy whose name Sherlock never cares enough to remember. John’s friend is currently ogling Irene, unaware of John’s mood.

 

Sherlock scowls. “Must you provoke him?” he snarls, pushing her hand away from his shoulder. Irene is smiling at him knowingly.

 

“Piss off,” Sherlock warns. It’s an empty threat however. He has nothing on Irene, has nothing to drive her to embarrassment. Her dignity is non-existent. “And don’t do anything stupid.”

 

He sees them the next day in the canteen. Irene has plonked herself at John’s table, one arm wrapped around John’s shoulders. Irene is laughing, whispering something to John’s ear. Whatever it is, it makes John flush but smile tentatively.

 

* * *

 

 

“Dinner? A film?” John’s legs are shorter than his but he easily catches up with Sherlock even though he’s walking as fast as he can. His stomach is tingling with nerves and he feels jittery, snappish. He wants to tell John to piss off but doubts that he can drive John away even if he does. So Sherlock hefts his bag, hunches his shoulders, and moves forward.

 

John heaves a sigh, this one not for show. Sherlock slows down once they reach the front gate then grits his teeth when he sees the black Rolls Royce in the parking lot. It’s not the fanciest car that’s ever entered the school’s premises but it’s expensive enough to garner attention. John himself stops and whistles appreciatively.

 

“Don’t,” Sherlock hisses. John shouldn’t be impressed by Mycroft because if he is, then Sherlock has nothing to do with him. He steps away from John when Mycroft steps out, but in spite of the distance, Mycroft manages to put two and two together. He smiles pleasantly at Sherlock, making Sherlock scowl even more.

 

“Brother dear,” he greets before turning to John. “Brother’s beau.”

 

“He isn’t,” Sherlock snaps before John can say anything more. “Let’s just go.”

 

“Of course. Siger mustn’t be kept waiting.” He looks at John once more. John’s looking at Mycroft warily. Good, Sherlock thinks, better scared than impressed. “We must talk in the future.”

 

“Oh, for the love of—Mycroft, let’s _go_.”

 

The ride is silent, the seriousness of what has just happened leaving no room for further teasing from Mycroft. Siger is careless, sometimes, and more often than not, he forgets to feed himself. He’s never collapsed during a performance until now. Siger will hate that he wasn’t able to finish, will hate it more than the medical procedures he’ll have to endure for the following days, even though Siger’s hatred for hospitals runs as deep as Sherlock’s—which is to say, Sherlock would rather bleed to death than be seen by a doctor.

 

The first time Siger was hospitalized, Sherlock was four and had been scared enough to forget that he wasn’t like other children, that crying was not acceptable. But Mycroft had let him climb up the hospital bed and press against Siger’s side, his father returning the embrace awkwardly. It happens so often now that the child’s fear of losing a parent has been replaced with an annoyance Sherlock can’t fully express. He isn’t any better as he occasionally skips meals, so lecturing his father is counterproductive.

 

He’s awake, eyes smudged with dark shadows, but they watch Mycroft and him intensely. His hands are pressed together, fingertips touching his lips. He tilts his chin up in greeting. “Paganini,” he tells Sherlock. It’s the Stradivarius today, the oldest in his father’s collection and Siger’s favourite. Sherlock picks it up, positions it, and fights the urge to smash it against the wall. Instead, he plays beautifully until Siger drifts back to sleep.

 

“Well done,” Mycroft tells him later. His hand is on his back, and for once, his brother’s touch doesn’t grate is nerves. It’s become an anchor, and when Mycroft hands him a cigarette, Sherlock almost smiles.

 

* * *

 

 

“I can walk you home if you like.”

 

“No. Perhaps you’re forgetting, I’m not a girl, John.”

 

“Didn’t say you were,” John says quickly. “It’s just that, you walk home all the time when your brother doesn’t come to pick you up. Thought you could use some company.”

 

They don’t have visitors in the house. It’s an unspoken rule that Sherlock has no wish to break because he’s never even though of inviting anyone over. Well, he did once and that’s a mistake never to be repeated. He doesn’t think anyone other than themselves will feel at home in the gloomy atmosphere of their house. John won’t like it, that’s for certain. Because in spite of his—odd, peculiar, and strangely flattering—fascination with Sherlock, his personality tells Sherlock that John would prefer something more domestic. With the years-old clutter, dark halls, and dirty bay windows, the Holmes’ household is anything but domestic.

 

John grins before he daringly slides his hand nearer to Sherlock’s, their little fingers almost touching. Their hands contrast—Sherlock’s pale with lean fingers and John’s tanned with nicks and a half-inch scar on the base of his thumb.

 

“The eyes of God are watching you, John Watson,” Sherlock whispers. It’s not a deterrent.

 

John shrugs. “Blasphemous,” Sherlock says in mock-anger, eliciting a giggle from John that he quickly hides with a cough. One of the sacristans shoots them a warning glare. “You can’t laugh during a service, John.”

 

The priest asks them to stand up and as Sherlock gets up, he feels John’s hand brush against his own. For a moment, Sherlock ignores it. But then John’s reaching for him, and soon enough, Sherlock finds his hand in John’s own.

 

“Go out with me?” John asks, smiling. He has dimples on his face, Sherlock realizes, the kind of dimples that are more lines than circles. His hand is warm and calloused in Sherlock’s. The feeling is strange but not jarring. Still, he shakes his head no.

 

It’s not enough for John to let go. It’s enough for Sherlock to keep holding on.

 

* * *

 

 

“Who was the first?”

 

John smells of sweat and grass. He’s a bit winded from his run so it takes a few seconds for the question to register in his mind. “The first?” he asks.

 

“The first person you hunted,” Sherlock says. Courted is disgustingly pedestrian, as is crush (even though it’s an accurate description to what Sherlock feels in his chest when he looks at John; it’s like his ribcage isn’t big enough for him and his lungs and heart are pressed against each other, making it hard to breathe). John raises his eyebrow at his word choice but doesn’t comment on it. Sherlock starts to rise from his seat but John stops him. He straddles the bench where Sherlock’s sitting then gives him a thoughtful gaze.

 

“Nice one, John!” Murray shouts. John turns to give him the two-fingered salute ( _not to be taken seriously, he’s grinning smugly_ ) before returning to Sherlock, the smile fading to a confused expression.

 

“How come you want to know?” he asks.

 

“Because I want to know how you went from that,” he says, gesturing to where a perky girl is flirting with Wilkes. “To this,” he finishes, pointing to himself. “Why are you even interested, anyway?”

 

And it isn’t that no one’s ever been interested. Remove the awkwardness of puberty and he might even be called handsome. He’s had other kids developing crushes on him before, has even experienced receiving Valentine’s gifts more extravagant than John’s. But no one’s ever been this insistent, and Sherlock has never censored his personality in front of John.

 

And yet John’s still here.

 

“My first girlfriend was Jeanette, when I was eleven,” John starts, “Didn’t work out. Then I had a sort-of relationship with my friend Sarah last year but that didn’t work out either. Strict parents and, well, it’s a bit weird to date someone you’ve been friends with since you were five.” He pauses for effect. “I’ve never kissed anyone before, though.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. “Don’t you dare think about it.”

 

“My thoughts are my own,” John teases. “And as for you, you’re well, you’re just different. I mean, yeah, you’re smart and you’re cute—”

 

“If you say that again—”

 

“Okay, delete that. You can be annoying and you’re social skills needs some tweaking. A lot, by the way. And you’ve got a brother that creeps the hell out of me, because every time he picks you up, he gives me this if-you-touch-him-I’ll-murder-you look.” John stops, then flushes slightly, and there it is again, that too-big feeling in the confines of his chest. “But you don’t hold back from the truth and that’s good, really, because I’d rather hang out with an honest guy than a hypocrite. You’ve got the weirdest interests, and well, I doubt I’d ever be bored hanging out with you.”

 

John clears his throat then opens his mouth to say the usual words.

 

“Tomorrow.”

 

John blinks. “What?”

 

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock mutters. He’ll regret this, he thinks, as the realization slowly dawns on John. “And if you’re late then forget about it.”

 

* * *

 

 

“No.”

 

“Give me a good reason as to why I cannot be late in coming home tomorrow?” Sherlock argues. He moves to the other side of the table where Siger’s standing. “My curfew is eight, Siger, and I find it quite unfair to be late for at least one hour. It’s a group work and I’m obliged to join.”

 

“Then tell your teacher that you’ll work alone!”

 

“As if I can avoid that forever!”

 

Siger claps his hands over his ears, his whole demeanour moving from furious to miserable as if Sherlock’s the one who’s wrong here, as if _he’s_ the bad guy. “Must you shout?”

 

Sherlock tries to clamp his mouth shut, but the anger is too great, and he forgets himself, forgets that he isn’t a child and that his father is different. “You started it!” he yells.

 

He’s a thirteen-year-old having an argument with his father. It’s almost normal, only their roles are reversed. Always have been reversed, Sherlock thinks as his father grits his teeth and massages his ears. There’s a sinking feeling in his chest that he thinks might be guilt but Sherlock stops it from going any further.

 

“You ought to rest, Siger.” Mycroft rests a hand on Siger’s shoulder then gently but firmly steers him out of the dining room. When he comes back he’s absolutely livid, to the point that Sherlock’s almost frightened of him.

 

“I’ve had it with him,” Sherlock snarls. He’ll fight fire with fire. He didn’t do anything wrong. “Are you not tired, Mycroft?”

 

“Would you prefer it if we lived elsewhere, with our uncles? They don’t even know your name,” Mycroft replies haughtily. “Sherlock, I have told you countless times to be patient with him. Siger is an unconventional father but he has never hit you, is providing you financially, given you a home where you’re safe and sound, is providing you with quality education. Everything you ask for, he gives to you. Or I give to you. You know he cannot understand.”

 

“Get him _treated_.”

 

“It’s a lifetime condition, brother, you know that. Autism isn’t curable. You’ll just have to live with it.”

 

“Put him in therapy, then!”

 

Mycroft purses his lips. “He’s stubborn.”

 

“You don’t try because you’re afraid people will call him a freak.”

 

“Is that what they call you, brother dear?”

 

It stings. It’s the truth. He doesn’t know why it happens. He doesn’t know why his father can still be called a brilliant violinist in spite of his condition, and his mother be remembered fondly in spite of leaving her two-year-old son hungry for the rest of the day and at the mercy of a madman for a father and an overprotective brother. He doesn’t know why _he’s_ still the freak in the end.

 

“Piss. Off.” It comes out less venomous than he wants to, but if Mycroft notices how weak the delivery is, he doesn’t comment on it. His brother takes a seat in the chair Siger vacated. The food’s barely been touched so Sherlock can still see the odd arrangement on his father’s plate, how each ingredient has been carefully separated by colour. He has to hand it to Siger, though. He’s good at hiding it.

 

Mycroft sighs wearily. “I don’t approve of him, Sherlock,” he says. He means John, of course he does, because John’s the only one who’s gotten close enough to Sherlock to cause concern. Irene doesn’t count because Irene’s frisky and not one Sherlock can ever trust. “You’re letting sentiment get the better of you.”

 

“John’s a friend.”

 

“You don’t have friends.”

 

“Well, maybe it’s because every time someone comes to our house,Siger freaks out and throws a lamp out the window,” Sherlock bites. Mycroft glares at him in warning but Sherlock stands his ground. He isn’t his brother and he’s glad of it because he doesn’t want to be the parent in this house.

 

Siger isn’t a bad parent. Just strange. It’s true that he’s never done anything to put Sherlock in harm’s way, and though he flies into a rage, he’s never hit either of them. But he’s not normal and he never will be, and even though normal is boring, sometimes Sherlock gets curious. Sometimes normal seems like a good thing.

 

“I’ll reason with Siger,” Mycroft finally replies. “And Sherlock, do remember to think logically when you’re with that boy.”

 

* * *

 

 

He’s never done a dissection before. It’s difficult to sneak in a foreign object without Siger noticing it. Sherlock stares at the shiny innards of the frog then looks up at John who’s looking at him expectantly. “Well?” he asks, nervous. Ridiculous to be nervous about Sherlock’s approval, he thinks, as John has bigger things to worry about. The school’s banned traditional dissections, opting for online work that Sherlock finds tedious. Sneaking in the laboratory after hours with a dead frog from god knows where (Bob’s Pet Store, near the reptiles. He’d know—he wanted a snake when he was six but Mycroft and Siger refused, the latter for being squeamish and the former for being a big fat git) is strictly prohibited.

 

“Harry’s class was asked to do hers at home so I kind of know how to do it since she didn’t want to touch the frog,” John explains. He picks up a scalpel, pokes the end of it in a gallbladder. “And, well, I kind of figured you’d hate the usual stuff so I, uh, thought of this.”

 

“How much trouble will we get in if we’re caught?”

 

“Us? Suspension maybe. A week or so.”

 

“Why doesn’t that bother you?” It doesn’t make sense because John’s markedly a good student. He’s a bit of a paradox, really, a series of contradictions carefully stored beneath the image of John that most people see. He’s someone whose layers Sherlock wants to peel slowly until there’s nothing left but the John he likes.

 

“It’s dangerous,” John replies, smiling that usual smile which Sherlock’s learned John reserves for him.

 

John is dangerous, Sherlock thinks, remembering Mycroft’s warning.

 

His first kiss tastes of sugar and the artificial blueberry flavour of the gum John popped in his mouth a few minutes ago. The kiss is not a thank you. Sherlock’s curious, has been curious since John held his hand in the chapel. He discovers that John’s lips are dry and chapped and sticky with gum residue, but pleasantly soft against his own.

 

“So?” John says, smiling. He leans his forehead against Sherlock’s, his face close enough that it’s beginning to blur. Sherlock backs away but John’s hand rests on his nape, anchoring him. “Is that a yes? To asking you out?”

 

Sherlock blinks. It is a yes, but he isn’t, he’s not—

 

“You’re not my boyfriend,” Sherlock cautions. It’s an empty threat. He’ll hate it, he thinks, because relationships aren’t for him. They’re messy and there will be expectations that Sherlock won’t be able to fulfil. Mycroft will know, of course, but his father never should. But John is dangerous—dangerous and interesting and he looks at Sherlock differently, as if Sherlock isn’t an oddity, as if he’s _special_.

 

“Okay,” John says. He’s smiling though as he picks up a scalpel, his shoulder pressed against Sherlock’s as he sets to work.

 

* * *

 

 

“Disappointed?”

 

“Very.”

 

“Let him go,” Sherlock growls. He taps his fingers on the door of the Rolls Royce and stares Mycroft down as best as he can. It’s difficult what with the window only rolled halfway down so all he can see is Mycroft’s face and a dark outline that must be John. “I’ll scratch it.”

 

In the end, Mycroft relents though Sherlock doubts it’s because of his threat. John stumbles out of the passengers’ seat, a little dazed but unharmed. He opens his mouth to say goodbye to Mycroft, but stops when Sherlock brushes past him. “Sherlock!” he calls. “Oi! Slow down, will you?”

 

“What did he say to you this time?” Sherlock gripes.

 

“Same stuff. Older brother protecting his younger sibling,” John says casually as he reaches for Sherlock’s hand. His hands immediately warm Sherlock’s icy ones. Convenient, he thinks, ignoring the stares the gesture elicits, _not_ sentimental. “He threatened to murder me if I ever hurt you. Told me to stay away from you as well, which is less acceptable than the murder part.”

 

“And?”

 

John laughs. “Sherlock, I’ve been trying to win you over for _months_. I’m not going to give you up just because Mycroft’s got a big brother complex.”

 

“I hate him.”

 

“No you don’t.” John smirks at him. “Why? Afraid of losing me?”

 

He’s not. John’s not important. He’s just interesting, someone to keep him from getting bored. Sherlock wrenches his hand out of John’s grasp as they enter the school building. “Sherlock,” John argues. He doesn’t try to grab his hand again, finally grasping that Sherlock’s averse to public displays of affection.

 

“You told them, of course,” Sherlock says, slowing down, enough for John to catch up with him. “Your friends?”

 

“Well, yeah. They’re my friends, Sherlock,” John tells him. “That’s how it goes.”

 

“Really?” It’s not sarcasm this time. Sherlock wouldn’t know because he doesn’t have friends, except for John it seems. But John’s more than a friend now, isn’t he, if that kiss is to be taken as a stepping stone.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s always someone who loves more in a relationship. Sherlock isn’t in love with John but he knows this. He’s seen the evidence. Or if not loves more, then there’s always a more expressive partner. In this experiment/mutualism he has with John, it’s obviously John.

 

Sherlock doesn’t alter his personality for John because surprisingly John likes him as himself. When he’s acerbic towards social norms and when he accidentally/intentionally calls John an idiot, John will frown and sometimes chastise him but he’s never once told Sherlock to act normal. He practically insults John’s intelligence on a daily basis and yet John still sticks to him.

 

It’s always John who initiates anything. He’s tactile but not overly-so. Lately, he’s developed the habit of reaching out to tuck Sherlock’s hair behind his ear. Sherlock doesn’t mind it because it’s better than holding hands in public, something John is slowly learning not to do. Another thing that makes him aware of John’s affection is from the way he hugs Sherlock. He likes to slide his arms inside Sherlock’s coat before he pulls him in, his body pressing against Sherlock’s so that every part of him is enveloped in John. Before this, Sherlock’s never hugged anyone outside his family. He’s never even hugged Mycroft—and he has no desire to—but somehow, he knows John’s hugs are different. It’s longer for one thing, usually lasting for five seconds. And it’s just…closer. Not suffocating, but close, as if John’s body just fits with his own.

 

John’s friends are accepting though they’re wary of him and keep staring, as if Sherlock is an exotic animal that’s more John’s pet than his…his more-than-friend. Stamford is the least fazed by it all, and of all of John’s friends, he’s the one Sherlock can tolerate long enough to have a halfway decent conversation with. “Most of us never really thought John would get you and a few of the guys made bets,” Mike admits sheepishly. He doesn’t touch Sherlock, doesn’t squeeze his shoulder or pat his back like all of John’s other friends. “Hey, I’m not going to tell you off if you break his heart because John keeps telling me you’ve got a brother who can do worse to me than I ever could to you. Just be yourself—John likes that.”

 

Irene, on the other hand, threatens John. “If you hurt him, I’ll cut off your newly-dropped balls and feed them to my boys,” she croons sweetly while John hides his anxiety with a laugh, Sherlock complaining at his side.

 

The whole school knows and Sherlock hates the attention, hates how, just because they’re supposedly an ‘item’ now, he can never go around without being marked as John’s. Always John’s, never the other way around, and that’s alright. He doesn’t really want to _claim_ John because as socially inept as he is, he does know that people don’t claim others for their own, unless you’re a possessive psychopath. It still gets the both of them dragged in the guidance councillor’s office, which is apparently a rite of passage for all couples.

 

“It’s because we’re both male, isn’t it?” Sherlock mutters. He makes a face at the secretary who gives him a defiant stare. It’s ruined by her lipstick which is a shade that just screams wrong, wrong, wrong. It makes her look like she rubbed chalk all over her mouth. Sherlock smirks and turns to look at John. He’s grinning back at him, and Sherlock nearly laughs, surprised at how easily John gets him.

 

“It isn’t, trust me,” John assures him. “Mitch and his girlfriend Nikki were brought in last year. They’re just going to tell us some things.”

 

“What?”

 

“That the school’s okay with it, that it’s good that we’re forming new relationships.” John leans into him until his mouth’s right next to Sherlock’s ear. “And sex, of course,” he says in his normal voice, causing the secretary to look up and shoot them an outraged glare.

 

They’re thirteen and sex is funny, even to Sherlock, though he doesn’t really know why because, logically, sex isn’t the least bit funny. Then again, his being with John defies logic. Sherlock laughs, and buries his face in the crook of John’s neck, ignoring the lectures they receive later on for being so crass.

 

* * *

 

 

“Can’t you take his place?”

 

Mycroft smiles patronizingly. “Why, brother dear, it touches me that you see me as a father figure.”

 

“It’s not that and you know it.” Sherlock thrusts the invitation in his brother’s face, not caring a bit that he crumples it in the process. “I cannot let him go here.”

 

“Do you honestly care what people say if they were to find out? Or do you just care about what they’ll say to you?” Sherlock stills. It’s only for a second but it catches him off-guard. Mycroft snatches the paper out of his hand and scans it. “Honestly, Sherlock, it’s nothing but a small gathering. Besides, you’re required to bring Siger. Your teachers are beginning to question your seeming lack of a parent.”

 

Sherlock plucks the strings of the Guarnerius harshly. It isn’t right that he should be find Siger’s condition so shameful, because his father can’t help being what he is. Still, it’s a weakness and Sherlock looks down on weakness. As for what people say, he doesn’t really care about that because people always talk, and people are stupid anyway.

 

But John.

 

He shakes the thought away but it’s too late. Mycroft sneers. “I warned you, Sherlock. Relationships are messy.”

 

“Oh, piss off!”

 

The Guarnerius luckily lands in Mycroft’s lap rather than the floor. His brother will chide him about acting so immaturely later, but Sherlock _is_ a child. He’s just expected not to act like one.

 

The door to the music library is ajar, a rare enough sight. Curiosity piqued, Sherlock stands in the threshold to find Siger sitting in the bay window seat, a sheaf of papers in his hands. His father looks younger in this light, and so strangely innocent that Sherlock nearly backs out the door to leave him be. But Siger is perceptive and he turns his head the moment Sherlock takes a step backward.

 

“New score,” he says in way of greeting, eyes shining, the way they do when he’s talking about something he’s interested in. Music, always music. “A bit messy but that’s what makes it beautiful.”

 

He tucks his legs to his chest, a clear invitation for Sherlock to sit next to him. It’s a rare enough gesture for Sherlock to forget his exasperation with him. Siger smells a bit stale, like he’s been holed up here since he decided to write something new. Sherlock wonders whether he’ll remember to bathe or if Mycroft will have to remind him. His thoughts are interrupted when the papers are excitedly thrust in his hands.

 

It’s messy and loud with far too much violin if he’s interpreting his father’s messy scrawl correctly. Sherlock reads the notes and stops, a bit startled.

 

It’s him, him as a symphony. Siger hasn’t written one about him since he was small, which tells Sherlock just how much he favours Mycroft over him as he’s made compositions incorporating Mycroft’s very being many times.

 

There’s a thank you threatening to spill out of his lips, but Sherlock holds and swallows it back. With the thank you came a sudden urge to tell Siger about John and Sherlock isn’t ready for that, because SIger isn’t. Never will be, to be honest.

 

“There’s this event in my school and you have to come,” he says instead. As loathsome as it is to admit it, Mycroft is correct. His father will manage. He’s been in bigger crowds and he’s adept at hiding his condition. He’ll survive.

 

Sherlock will just have to talk to John first.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re not my boyfriend.”

 

It sounds stupid to say it when he’s sitting on John’s lap, wearing John’s letter jacket, and his mouth numb from too much practice in kissing. How he ended up in John’s lap is beyond him—things begin to get hazy once the dopamine sets in.

 

John gestures to how they’re positioned. “I find that statement questionable.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Sherlock says, annoyed at John’s slowness. John’s hand immediately settles on the base of his spine, something he’s wont to do when Sherlock is pissed at him. “When our parents are here. Siger doesn’t know.”

 

“Siger?”

 

Sherlock groans. “My _father_ , John. Or were you not listening?”

 

“You call your father by his first name.” John blinks. “Okay, well, that’s okay. But he…why? You haven’t told him, have you?”

 

“Obviously not.”

 

“But Sherlock, your brother knows. Surely…” He trails off and then his face turns sombre. “Is he…does he not approve of you being with a boy? Is he like that?”

 

It’s a lie and it’s cruel but Sherlock nods. It’s better for John to think that Siger’s like that, better than for him to find out the truth.

 

“I was going to introduce you to my mum,” John mumbles, blushing. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist and squeezes slightly. “But I guess I can tell her the situation. She’d like to meet you though. As…well, as you know.”

 

Sherlock stares, baffled. People never introduce him to others. Or if they do, it’s always with an extension of the words ‘freak’ or ‘weirdo’. “She says I talk about you all the time,” John mutters, clearly embarrassed. “I didn’t even tell her that we’re dating—she just figured it out.”

 

“So how about it?” John asks hopefully and Sherlock just knows that his answer will be yes. “Can I invite you over?”

 

* * *

 

 

Anna Watson smiles at him knowingly when Sherlock walks by. He’s been trying to catch up with Siger, fortunately happy enough to pass of as normal for today, albeit a bit talkative. The only thing that gives him away is that he refuses to look people in the eye when he’s talking to them, something he cleverly hides by looking at a point below their eyes. Sherlock is dressed in a dove-grey button down and black trousers, sticking out like a sore thumb among his peers, all of whom are dressed more casually. John himself is wearing a threadbare shirt and an old pair of jeans with drops of paint on it. The woman beside him is undoubtedly his mother. Her smile is warm, welcoming like her son’s. Sherlock looks away.

 

John must have told her because she only sidles up to him when Siger goes to the bathroom. She gently rests her hand on his shoulder. “Lunch this Saturday?” she says. Her voice is surprisingly strong for such a small woman. Unexpected, exactly like John.

 

He’s about to answer when he spots Siger approaching him. He nods quickly then walks away before Siger can reach them.

 

“Know her?” he asks. He’s getting jittery, his nervous tic coming out. Sherlock watches as he keeps digging his fingernails on the inside of his wrist. There are more people now, and it’s getting noisy and Mycroft isn’t here. Sherlock wraps his hand around his father’s, stopping him from doing any serious injury to himself.

 

“She was just asking me something,” he explains as he tugs him out the room. “There’s a music library here as well. We can stay there for a while.”

 

John raises his eyebrows when Sherlock walks past him but Sherlock gives a shake of his head. If Siger notices it, he doesn’t say anything. He just walks on with Sherlock in tow, seemingly composed to everyone but Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

John’s house is small, the kind of house that writers would love. Sherlock can already imagine an introduction, certain that the words ‘warm’ and ‘inviting’ would be present. “Not much,” John says but there’s something akin to pride in his voice, “but it’s home.”

 

Inside, it’s warm; the heaters are turned on at full blast. Sherlock unwraps his scarf and surveys the room. Comforting, and jarring. A paradox, Sherlock thinks delightedly, unable to hold back the laugh that rises from his chest.

 

The walls, or what’s visible beneath the numerous picture frames adorning it, are painted a powder blue. Messily applied if the splatters on the floor have anything to say about it. Sherlock touches the banister of the stair leading up the second floor. It’s covered in vines, painstakingly painted by a deft hand. “Both of my parents are artists,” John explains. “Harry, too. Not sure what happened to me, though.”

 

He finds a picture of John’s complete family among the mess of picture frames. His father, an older version of John in a dress uniform, has one arm slung around John’s shoulders. John’s wearing a baseball cap and is not looking at the camera, as if someone out of frame just grabbed his attention. Harry, John’s older sister, has her arms folded across her chest and is wearing a rather ugly frown. Anna stands with her mouth open, as if to scold her.

 

“Dad’s an army brat,” John says, “moved a lot when he was a kid so it just seemed inevitable that he’d be a soldier like Grandpa. Dad’s a good guy.” His smile turns mischievous. “You were wrong about both my parents. Mum just gets easily distracted and Dad knows I like guys as well. He’s okay with it. I told him about you already, says I ought to introduce you via Skype.”

 

“Then how come you didn’t say anything?”

 

John shrugs. “Not sure. Guess it’s because you’re a lot more attractive when you’re winning.”

 

He’s doing it again. Flirting. Sherlock’s not very good at flirting, something John’s quite good at. Sherlock tries to glare at him but John is laughing and crowding in his space, and, oh, of course, kissing. There’s almost always kissing after that.

 

“No snogging in the hallway. Rules apply to you, too, brat,” Harry drawls, leaning over the banister to stare them down. Her eyes are squinted, her voice hoarse. Hangover, Sherlock deduces, just before John complains about her drinking again. There’s a hickey on her clavicle that’s far too small to be that of a man’s mouth.

 

“You reek of a bar, Harry,” John bites but there’s no real venom in it. Harry smirks then climbs down the last steps. She ruffles John’s hair fondly then gives Sherlock a curious glance before disappearing into the next room.

 

Five years later, Harry and John’s relationship will sour when John drives his sister to the hospital to have her stomach pumped. It will worsen when John graduates from med school and will be ruined beyond repair when John enlists in the military. But these things, even Sherlock doesn’t know yet.

 

John brings him to the kitchen which would look normal enough if not for the stacks of canvases near the bin, or the fact that Anna’s currently painting a mural on the wall with her hands. It’s indecipherable, just splotches of the base colours, and Sherlock quickly loses interest in favour of Anna. She beams at Sherlock when he approaches. “I’ll have to feed you up,” she comments when she finally washes her hands in the sink. “You’re thin as a stick.”

 

 _They’ll make me talk about my family_. It’s inevitable. Sherlock takes a seat beside John and stares at his plate with dread. He can’t make everything up because John’s already met Mycroft, but he can omit some of the things he never wants mentioned.

 

“My father’s a conductor in the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra,” Sherlock says automatically when asked about Siger. He pushes the pasta back and forth in his plate. He hates mushrooms. Why did he never tell John? Still, he takes a bite, hiding his disgust for Anna’s sake.

 

“And your mother?”

 

Sherlock shrugs. It’s not uncommon so he tells the truth. He doesn’t tell her that she left without a proper goodbye or that Sherlock learned later on that she’s dating a man nine years her senior. “It happens,” he says to the sympathetic glance Anna sends his way. He hates sympathy. This, John knows. His hand finds Sherlock’s under the table, his thumb rubbing circles into his skin in a soothing manner.

 

He doesn’t tell about the worst times, like when he was four and Mycroft was only eleven and too young to make things better, and how there was no food around the house and Siger was just gone in his own head. He doesn’t tell them that he ran away once when he was six, only to be recovered by Mycroft who’d clung to him so hard it felt like his bones would snap into two, before lecturing him about running off. He doesn’t tell them about the time he invited Victor Trevor over, the one person who Sherlock hadn’t managed to piss or scare off, and things just went horribly wrong when Siger had a tantrum and broke an expensive vase that Cordelia had given them. Only time the secret got out and Siger had immediately removed him from the school. Not fast enough, though, not fast enough to stop them from marking him and his whole family as freaks.

 

Sherlock hasn’t eaten anything in two days. It’s not because of an experiment. Sherlock doesn’t know why he does that, why he can’t bring himself to eat even when there’s nothing occupying his mind. Starving himself isn’t an experiment because he already experienced hunger for four days when Siger left for a tour and forgot to leave them money (well, no, he did leave them money but Mycroft was gone for too long and Sherlock impulsively bought a telescope, which he threw away after deciding astronomy is boring). The pasta sits heavily in his stomach which is a little less concave now. He has to swallow several times to stop it from coming back up.

 

“She asks a lot of questions, I’m sorry.”

 

“Mycroft kidnapped you so anything your mother does to me pales in comparison,” Sherlock replies, turning his head so that his nose is pressed against the mattress. John’s bed smells of him, like sweat and grass and boy. Sherlock stretches, forcing John to slip off the bed and onto the floor. He huffs but doesn’t make a complaint, only rearranges himself in a more dignified position.

 

“You know, I still want to see you if your dad ever does find out about us.” John grins at him. There’s a shred of basil stuck between his teeth. Sherlock contemplates telling him or licking it off. He has yet to stick his tongue in John’s mouth, and Sherlock wonders if John will find it disgusting (probably not) or if he’ll be averse if Sherlock licks the surface of his teeth, just to know what it feels like under his tongue.

 

“It will be dangerous.” He’s already curling his hand on the back of John’s neck. John’s pupils dilate, black swallowing blue as he leans closer, his mouth brushing against Sherlock’s own.

 

“I like dangerous.”

 

* * *

 

 

They make it to five months before things go to hell.

 

It’s an accident but Wilkes is laughing like it isn’t. His ears are ringing and he’s staring at the smashed remains of the Guarnerius like one would look at a car crash. It sits on the bottom of the stairs, broken beyond repair, and how could he be so stupid as to take it out of the case, even for just a second? Some of the kids below are looking up, waiting to see what will happen, and Wilkes is just laughing and apologizing like _nothing happened._

 

One glance at Sherlock and you can say he’ll be disappointing in a fight. He may be tall, but he’s skinny, with matchstick limbs and a frame that constantly jumps the line between elegant and starved. But he’s clever and fast and when Wilkes stops laughing a second too later, Sherlock slams against him with enough force to knock him on his back.

 

Wilkes is bigger and at least three stones heavier than Sherlock, but in the end, it’s him who’s crying and begging Sherlock not to hit him anymore. His mouth bleeds red, his nose broken, but Sherlock won’t stop until he feels teeth give in under his fists. It’s Murray who stops him, dragging him off Wilkes by the scruff of his neck and throwing him away.

 

It’s an accident. Of course it is because in spite of Murray’s burly frame, he doesn’t like hurting people. All the same, Sherlock slips backward, dangling on the edge of the stairs.

 

It doesn’t take much to fall. After all, falling is the easy part.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the suit that makes him panic. His father’s best, a black Versace that he only wears when he has an important show to attend. Sherlock swallows hard when Siger’s eyes fall on his hands. They’re raw and bloody and the left one is no doubt broken, but it’s what in them that matters to his father.

 

“It was an accident,” he says, hating how his voice shakes. He concentrates on fighting it because he isn’t a child, he isn’t, but fear replaces his defiance and he ends up sinking further in his seat. His fingers close around the strings. The rest of the violin sits in his lap. Useless now, he ought to get rid of it. “It wasn’t my fault.”

 

Siger’s hands have closed into fists and he’s trembling, his eyes flashing with barely controlled anger. He’ll hit him, he will, but Sherlock prays that it isn’t here, not when people can still see them, because as difficult as Siger is, he doesn’t want to go to a home where people won’t understand how his mind works.

 

The headmaster clears his throat, watching the two of them carefully. A one week suspension. It should be expulsion but Sherlock’s grades are impeccable and he’s worth too much to let go. Sherlock couldn’t care less about the suspension because he hates school anyway. It’s the aftermath that matters. Wilkes is injured, he’s an important player, John has a game in three days, and without Wilkes they’ll lose. The students will hate him even more.

 

John will hate him.

 

Siger is quiet, his eyes trained on the road the entire time. Sherlock isn’t fooled by it. He presses his face against the window, keeping his eyes downcast, his injured hands resting on his lap. “The hospital,” Siger says after some time. There’s still anger in his voice but he’s calmed somewhat and Sherlock allows himself to relax. Stupid to think Siger will hit him. He hates blood, gets squeamish at the sight of it. His eyes jump from the road to Sherlock’s hands where the blood has dried and looks nearly black against the background of white skin. “I’ll take you there. You might have done some irreparable damage to your hands.”

 

They ask him questions when he gets there and Sherlock answers in a clipped, cool tone. They ask Siger questions as well, because the doctors know what he is, which is why he hates hospitals so much. It’s the way he keeps looking away and when he keeps curling and uncurling his hands. He looks ready to implode by the time Mycroft gets there, his face grim and a bit furious. At Wilkes, not at Sherlock, he thinks when Mycroft rests a hand on his back. It hurts a bit from the fall but nothing’s broken. Just bruised.

 

“We’ll talk about this. Later,” Siger promises even though Sherlock knows that he’ll probably forget it when he gets home. Forget it and remember it two or three days later when Sherlock is in the midst of an experiment. It must not be that serious to Siger, Sherlock decides. He never did like the Guarnerius so its loss might not be too big. He would be whining at the back of his throat if it was.

 

Mycroft doesn’t scold him when he drives them home. Somehow, it’s worse than the ride with his father because Mycroft’s giving him that _look_ , the one that’s almost pitying and Sherlock hates it so, so much because Mycroft understands bullying. Sherlock remembers the bruises on Mycroft’s arms and face when he was younger, remembers how Mycroft kept telling him ‘it’s okay Sherlock, nothing hurts, it’s nothing to worry about’ as if Sherlock didn’t see hear him groaning in pain in his sleep.

 

“Siger has an acquaintance who can tutor you,” Mycroft says once the car has stopped in the driveway. “It’s better that way, I think.”

 

“Who cares what you think?” Sherlock snaps. He hopes it hurts Mycroft, but it’s futile. Mycroft doesn’t touch him or tell him that things will be fine. They don’t comfort each other; it doesn’t happen that way. Rather, there’s silence, the two of them sitting there while an old pop song plays in the radio, just breathing until Sherlock tells him, five minutes later, that they should get out of the car.

 

* * *

 

 

John Watson is an idiot.

 

“I told you not to go here!”

 

“You weren’t answering my calls,” John argues back as if that’s a good excuse for coming here, dressed in his uniform (lied about going to school) and with a box of biscuits in his hands. Anna’s, Sherlock thinks when John hands it to him, mindful of the bandages wrapped around Sherlock’s knuckles. He’s frowning and Sherlock thinks he’ll get an earful for what he did to Wilkes when John suddenly grabs him by the waist and holds him close.

 

“John,” Sherlock starts. It’s nine o’clock, Siger is upstairs and John is here, wrapped around him in a manner that can throw ‘just friends’ out the window. He rests his hand on John’s shoulder to push him off, but his fingers hesitate when he feels the warmth radiating from John. Abnormally high body temperature, only John can take looking warm to a whole new level. “John,” he says again, “the biscuits. You’re crushing them.”

 

“I _missed_ you, you idiot, so stop ruining the moment.” Nevertheless, he releases Sherlock long enough to take the box and set it on the countertop. “Did you know that your brother picked me up this morning?” he asks. Sherlock glares at him because no, he didn’t know that, and he ought to kill Mycroft already before he can think about sending John to Siberia or wherever Sherlock can’t reach him before John continues, one hand resting on Sherlock’s arm to stop his train of thought. “He said you were wallowing in your own misery here and that your dad might pull you out of school next year because you got hurt. He told me to come over here.” There’s a hint of a smile on his face but most of him is wary, his fear of the possibility blatant. “I think it’s an approval.”

 

“The matter has yet to be decided,” Sherlock tells him. _No, I won’t go, not if John’s still here. I’ll convince Siger and Mycroft’s already warming up to John (disgusting, hate him, but convenient)._

 

“I punched Wilkes again,” John tells him. There’s something like pride and a fierce protectiveness in his voice that brings a strange feeling to Sherlock’s chest, like it’s too warm and as if his ribcage is too big and is stretching his skin. “I wouldn’t have if it was purely an accident but Stamford told me. Wilkes never did like you. It’s not just you, I think. I think he just hates that I’m into guys as well. Says it makes me weak.” John shakes his head. “He’s an idiot if he thinks being in a relationship with a boy makes you weak. Good job ruining his face.”

 

John cups his face in his hands and Sherlock thinks he might kiss him. He hopes he does because kissing John is better than what John is doing right now. He’s looking at Sherlock so intently, as if mirroring the way Sherlock looks at the things that interest him. _He loves you_. It’s a strange thought and a more than a little uncomfortable piece of truth. They’re thirteen and they’re both still growing into their stretched limbs and Sherlock keeps growing an inch a night so that when he presses against John again, he’ll find that he’ll have a harder time bending down to press his mouth against John’s. Love is too much for a kid to think about.

 

It is, however, the truth.

 

“Your father isn’t homophobic, is he?”

 

He can lie, can say that Mycroft’s just messing with him because Mycroft does that anyway—it’s some sort of game that Sherlock can’t really disapprove of as manipulation is their strong suit. But he wants John here, more than anything, and it scares him a bit that he feels this way. “No,” he says. It comes out surprisingly easy, as if the word’s ben waiting underneath his tongue all this time. John moves closer until their knees are touching. It’s not flirting, he can tell the difference. John is waiting, trusting him to go on. “He has Asperger’ Syndrome. He doesn’t like meeting new people and he has to follow a routine or he’ll go mad, and if you touch him wrong, he’ll pull away and try to hurt himself. He has to divide his food into sections before he can eat and he’s obsessed with music and violins. He has good days and bad days and you can tell it easily because on good days, he’ll smile at you and he might even hug you. I don’t have it, John.”

 

The last one is said quickly, like if Sherlock doesn’t get it out fast enough, John will think otherwise. “Never said you do,” John says, just as fast. There’s something like understanding in his face. _Okay, not now, but we’ll talk about it when you’re ready, yeah?_

 

“I take it he won’t be happy to see me here?”

 

“No.” Sherlock shrugs. Without warning, yes, without a thorough explanation. He looks at John and thinks of Anna’s warm smile and Harry cursing in the background and all those embarrassing photographs of John that Anna showed him. He’ll have to meet him anyway. He has enough data to form the conclusion that John’s going to be here for a long time.

 

“Wait, stay here.”

 

* * *

 

 

Siger sits on the edge of the bed, wrapped in his dressing gown and hands pressed in a position befitting prayer. It’s been approximately ten minutes since Sherlock spoke. Sherlock can’t read what his father is thinking (he never could) but he can read the surface of him. There’s ink underneath his fingernails and a smudge of it on the side of his palm. Composing again, Sherlock registers, wondering what it’s about this time. Not about him and surely not about Mycroft. It will be a long time before he once more connects them to what he loves most. This suits Sherlock just fine. The rarity of it is what makes it more special.

 

“I disapprove,” Siger says. It doesn’t matter because Sherlock is rebellious. He’ll keep seeing John, anyway. But somehow it still shatters inside his chest because he’ll never have what John has with his family. Sherlock keeps his face void of emotion but some of it must slip because Siger’s eyes widen a fraction.

 

 _He noticed_.

 

“I know it’s not logical,” Sherlock begins. “And it is better if I would live my life alone. Sentiment ruins us. But John is…different. He’s beneficial to my emotional growth and he makes me think better.” It’s a clinical and inaccurate description of what he has with John. He can’t put it in words, words that Siger might understand. He fishes for something more rhetoric but stops when he sees that Siger’s cool mask has dropped to that pure look of curiosity that always makes Sherlock think their roles have reversed.

 

“Does he make you happy?”

 

It’s an odd question coming from such a peculiar man and Sherlock sits there, stunned. “You claimed that happiness is overrated,” Sherlock argues, even as his mind is telling him to shut up.

 

“Yes,” Siger says. He looks confused but it’s slowly fading to a look of certainty. “But he makes you happy and whatever makes you happy must be a good thing.”

 

Sherlock stares at him in disbelief. This isn’t like him. Unless…unless... “Mycroft talked to you,” he says and Siger confirms it with a nod. No wonder he didn’t lash out the moment Sherlock told him there’s a stranger downstairs. It must have taken days, little hints dropped here and there about Sherlock being with someone.

 

_I’ll have to thank Mycroft._

Sherlock cringes even as his mouth curls into a smile. He tries to keep himself in check. “Would you like to meet him?” he asks. Siger nods and Sherlock gives up on controlling himself.

 

* * *

 

Siger stares at John curiously, like John is a symphony just waiting to be interpreted by his father’s overactive mind. John sits on the other end of table, sitting close enough to Sherlock that their thighs are pressed against each other. John’s nervousness has not faded. He keeps licking his lips and sneaking sideways glances at Sherlock that Sherlock tries to stop by jabbing his finger into John’s side.

 

It’s ten o’clock and Siger hasn’t had breakfast yet. Sherlock takes it as a good sign; John is interesting enough to break his routine for one day. He looks at John and wonders how Siger looks in his eyes. Not much like me, Sherlock thinks, not physically anyway. But there are some things alike in their manner. It’s in the way they look at people and in the way their hands keep twitching when their minds are scratching at the insides of their skulls. He picks things up from Siger even though he makes a conscious effort not to.

 

“Would you require sex?”

 

John nearly chokes on his own spit. It’s the first thing Siger has ever said to him. John recovers, his face flushed and his eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. He almost voices out the ‘excuse me, you must be out of your mind’ that Sherlock can see, but stops himself when Sherlock pokes his side in warning.

 

“Sir,” John starts, “um, we’re only thirteen. That’s…that’s not really on my mind right now.”

 

Siger waves it off. “In the future,” he says, “there’s enough evidence to gather that you’ll be staying with my son for long. You’ll sleep with him surely. Hormones and all that, besides Sherlock gets curious. I don’t suppose I’ll mind it very well as I don’t have to worry about teen pregnancy and the state of your uniform and the way you’re holding my son’s hand underneath the table tells me you’ll practice safe sex. Oh, but yes, you’re far too young for that so I suppose I should set some rules? Let’s see…if you sleep with my son before he turns sixteen you’ll regret it. His brother is very overprotective.

 

“I dislike you,” Siger says openly before John can say anything. John closes his mouth immediately. “But liking you is not a requirement anyway. Overtime, perhaps I’ll get used to your presence.” His eyes land on Sherlock, before he turns back to John. “You will have dinner with us every Friday, unless there is an emergency or a more important activity at home or in school. This is clear?”

 

John looks like he’s about to protest but in the end he merely nods. “Clear,” he confirms weakly.

 

Siger gets up. John leans against him, muttering about Holmeses and their eccentricities before tilting his head to kiss Sherlock.

 

“I also give you no permission to kiss him while in my presence,” Siger orders before he leaves the room. John groans and mutters an apology while Sherlock laughs, his face pressed in the crook of John’s neck. He feels stupidly in love with this boy. It is illogical and grossly sentimental when he rests his hand on John’s, their fingers twining around each other as tightly as they can without hurting Sherlock.

 

It is stupid.

 

It is perfect.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what happened with this story. It was supposed to be really light-hearted as a small break from writing Venn Diagram which is getting heavier with each chapter. It was supposed to be just John flirting with Sherlock a lot as kids. It got out of hand. 
> 
> Ok, this is based on a true story and some of the things here are based on real things, like the school which is similar to the one I'm currently attending and like how Siger's a member of the orchestra (my friend's dad, not mine). I also had a strange childhood as I grew up in a household with two members of the family diagnosed with bipolar disorder--my older sister and myself. Mine's cyclothymia which is a much milder version of my sister's. Hers is bipolar II. So it was tough on my parents raising us since they were--are--never of sure what ticks us off and it's tough on me as well because even though I'm familiar with the mood shifts, I can never really relate to what my sister experiences. 
> 
> Until I met my friend J, though, I'd never heard of the reverse. Our parents always took care of us. J's the one who takes care of hers. J's childhood is almost an exact replica of Sherlock's here, only instead of a father it's her oldest sister, her guardian, who has Asperger's syndrome. Aside from that, her younger sister has bipolar II. She can't bring anyone over because her sister freaks out and she can never be late without her older sister getting mad, even with a viable reason. The one time she brought us to her house, her older sister got mad enough to actually toss a laptop out the window. It sounds a bit funny but that was one of the scariest experiences of my life.
> 
> This isn't my headcanon of Sherlock's childhood, but it seemed like a possibility, and as a person who knows just what it's like to live with someone--or be that someone--with a mental illness, I'm aware of how difficult it is to fit with the norms.


End file.
